


Ballad of the Aedirnian Woods

by Farbautidottir



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Forest Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Loneliness, M/M, Memories, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farbautidottir/pseuds/Farbautidottir
Summary: Alone and seemingly forgotten, Jaskier reminisces on his travels with Geralt through Aedirn while locked in a dungeon with no idea how he got there or why.Story is set after Season 1, Episode 8.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 186





	Ballad of the Aedirnian Woods

It ought to be easy now to see it all clearly. To know what was real and what was only magic. The lute string calluses on my fingers softening from disuse, the shitty ale the Nilfgaardian soldiers hailed as excellent, the irony that a White Flame could spread absolute darkness across the continent. These all were real. _Are real_. These facts are my world now that I am tucked away in a cell and forgotten.

Somewhere out there, Geralt the Witcher seeks his Child of Destiny. His Law of Surprise. Perhaps he’s found the Cintran child already.

That’s Destiny. _Magic_. Or is none of that real at all?

These days, well I probably ought to say these months—fuck, it could be years by now for all I can tell locked in this dungeon, but let’s agree on the poetic sense of time.

These days, I wonder if anything was ever real.

 _Perhaps_ , my mind whispers, _perhaps, darling Jaskier, it has all only been an illusion and you’ve been in this cell for eternity_. I remind myself I am not immortal, only human. Eternity is not something I can know. I am nothing special. Just a voice telling others’ stories. Not someone worth keeping around. Geralt made that very clear in the Dragon Mountains where he left me years ago. If I bothered to pay attention, he already made it clear before then, back in Rinde, when we first met that duplicitous witch, Yennefer.

As I dwindle away forgotten in this cell, it is clearer to me than spring water that I am nobody important. Until it isn’t. Until I drift elsewhere, eastward. Until I find myself in the Aedirnian woods at dusk.

The road spreads before us, dry for once, with dust gently clouding the air behind Roach’s hooves.

“Night falls,” Geralt says.

We continue a hundred paces before I ask, “Should we make camp?”

He says nothing, but his grunt implies my comment was superfluous. I’m not offended. If that type of rudeness offended me, I would’ve wilted decades ago. No, a bard must endure. Heroes worth singing tales about rarely make for polite companions. But for me, Geralt’s deep compassion for the world erases any lack of tact he might display. By now, I know him. I know he is pure of soul in the truest way. The way lesser men mock. Others might disagree with such an assessment of the Witcher, but they do not know him as I do.

Roach determines the best path into the woods. The horse’s sense of danger is uncanny, and I’ve long since come to trust the creature’s judgement.

“Good, Roach. This should do,” Geralt praises. Without a glance in my direction he commands, “Set up camp, bard. I will fetch us wood.”

“Right, I will,” I say, but the Witcher is already gone and it’s Roach who responds with an unimpressed snort. I give her a look, “Yes, well, you’re no better. When have you ever said no to him, _hm_?”

Roach looks away, suddenly engrossed with a nearby tree branch to mask her shame, and I start to dig a narrow drainage ditch out of the upper ground with my boot heel. Nothing is enjoyable in soaked clothes. Though there was that time we went for a river bath in the Ismena. I smile at the memory. Of course, we didn’t have any clothes on for that, so it makes for poor comparison.

I’ve made up camp by the time Geralt returns, his forearms taut under the weight of all the wood he scrounged up. He bends to set it down near the modest firepit I dug.

“Do we still have any rations?” he asks, though I know he knows we do.

“Yes, a bit. A few days yet,” I reply anyway, and Geralt rewards me with a thoughtful nod.

I don’t go fetch the rations. He’ll start the fire first. We have a routine for these nights in the woods when we’re between villages. When there’s nowhere to sleep but the ground.

“I saw few animals. I hope it is not going to rain,” Geralt remarks as he strikes the flintstone.

“I dug the rain trench,” I say.

“Good.”

The sparks finally ignite the kindling I gathered, and Geralt busies himself with tending to the newborn fire. The floundering sparks light his golden eyes in the deepening shadows of dusk, and I catch my breath. It’s fleeting, this moment. It’s a rare time when I can observe him and the Witcher is aware of it. When his actions might be intentional because he knows I am watching.

He smiles. My stomach leaps like a frog moving lily pads.

“There we are!” he says with proud satisfaction, as if lighting a fire is such a major feat. I wonder if his smile was only for the fire.

I settle beside him, balancing on the balls of my feet as I hand him pieces of the firewood he gathered.

“You don’t think it’s a monster, do you? Why there’s so few animals out?” I say as I stare into the growing flames of this fire we’re building.

“No, but I’ve been wrong before,” he says simply as he pats the hilt of his sword. His velvet voice licks out the next words, “Don’t worry, bard, I’ll protect you.”

I flash him a cheeky grin to smother the heat rising in my cheeks. “You’d better. I’m the only reason you receive so much employment, Witcher.”

He grins with amusement, his eyes alight like miniature suns showing off.

“If your voice was actually good, I’d never have need to sleep in the woods,” he jokes.

“Ha ha, Witcher. You know you adore my voice. Tis the one thing that brings you solace, I dare say,” I jab back.

Geralt kisses me then. It’s playful, easy; its notes a mischievous limerick. I kiss him back in equal measure. The night already superior to most.

“I should get the rations,” I murmur close to his lips.

“Yes, please do. I’m famished,” Geralt says in his usual dispassionate cadence.

I rise and fetch them from the pack Roach carries along with our jug of wine. I give the horse a tender pet, garnering a content huff in return.

“Here we are,” I say, folding in my legs as I sit beside Geralt and hold out the thick ration loaf to him.

He tears off a chunk, and I do the same. The rations stick to my mouth’s insides, dry and a bit mealy. Geralt reaches for the wine before I can take a swig myself, and I’m forced to suffer while he reprieves himself. It isn’t unfair that he should eat and drink first. He is much larger and stronger than me, after all. He swallows a final time and hands me the jug.

“This shit never improves,” he remarks, and I fight a laugh as I’m mid-swig. “Next time I’ll kill us something to eat instead.”

I swish the wine in my mouth to flush out all the ration bits. The only good thing about rations is how filling a small amount can be. That and their utter lack of taste. Better than a nasty flavor for certain.

“I knew a mage once who would use magic to turn rations into a feast. I was younger then, unaware it was only magic. I thought chicken and tomatoes had the same bland flavor for many years,” Geralt says.

I’ve never heard him talk about his youth before.

“They’re not so different anyway, I suppose,” I venture, and he makes no negative response so I continue on. “You’d think a mage would make the flavors reflect truth.”

“She was focused on other matters she deemed more important.” His tone is so similar to his prior one, most wouldn’t decipher a difference. But I know him by now. I know it means to stop.

“Want any more wine?” I ask, holding out the jug.

“No, I am satisfied for tonight.”

I stand, gathering the remaining rations and wine, and pack it back into the saddlebag. Geralt unrolls the mats I set out earlier and I pull the blanket from the pack. There’s only the one, but it’s large enough to form a tent if needed. Tonight a tent won’t be needed. It’s far too mild weather and there’s no wind in the protection of the trees.

Geralt has set up the mats side by side to form a double-sized bed of sorts, if only one imagines it. I like to imagine it, so I do. We only ever sleep together between villages. In front of others Geralt must maintain his reputation—the reputation I built him! It’s a mutual understanding—and the reality is that weeks alone with each other lends strongly to the need for alternative company. Especially if that company has tits and a wet opening and an eager mouth as so often the company around Geralt does. I get the extras and my own room for the night. Only in the smallest places have we ever shared a room. Well, and that one time in Belhaven he insisted I join him and the blonde wench who claimed not to be a whore but most certainly was. The mouth on that one—as if she’d lost all her teeth. Geralt told her he wouldn’t touch her unless his bard could join in. That night was a lot of fun, admittedly. She even made herself scarce in the morning, and I fell back asleep to wake in Geralt’s arms. The mattress soft beneath our naked skin. It had felt like a dream as he murmured, “Morning” in his delicate way.

The way he only speaks to me in the woods.

“Come lie down,” he says from his spot on the mats.

I obey. We spread the blanket over us and settle against the lumpy earth. I wonder if tonight will be one where he falls asleep quickly or one where we stay awake for hours.

“Stop,” Geralt says.

“Stop what?” I ask.

“Humming.”

“I was humming?” I ask, not realizing I was.

“Yes,” he groans.

“I hum when I think.”

“Then do not think.”

“What shall I do then?” I ask, turning on my side to face him.

“Sleep, bard.”

“I am not tired, Witcher.”

He groans again but shifts his body so he’s facing me too.

We stare at each other in silence until he murmurs, “Your name makes no sense.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. My skin prickles with concern that he is rejecting the very essence of who I am.

“It should be Chaber not Jaskier with eyes the color of yours,” he says.

“Wishful thinking on your end, I fear, as cornflowers are not poisonous to humans like buttercups are,” I say.

“How lucky I am not human.” Geralt smiles.

I kiss him, and he returns it in fervor. His mouth encompasses mine fully, the rugged stubble scratching my clean-shaven skin. It’s a mild pain I find myself craving in random moments. His hand grazes up my side under the blanket and runs from my hipbone to my jaw, which he grips to pull my face upwards to meet his lips. He shifts, aligning his body to mine so I can feel him against me. We rub against one another without inhibition, our desires as united as our tongues between our mouths.

Even with our clothes on it all feels delightful. I’m lost in the friction of our bodies when he pulls his mouth from mine and whispers gruffly, “Make me sing, bard.”

His mouth finds the sensitive skin of my neck, and I waste no time unbuttoning his trousers and my own. I free us from the confines of fabric and wrap my hand around his hot, hard shaft. I pull on him a few times before his hand finds my exposed shaft. His skin is rough, thick with calluses and scar tissue from wielding his swords and defending against sharp, lethal objects. I moan at his touch. It’s an explosion of pleasure.

“Let me do my work,” I say through heavy breaths as he strokes me.

He grunts as I pull away and move my head under the blanket, down to him. I slide him between my lips and take him as deep as I can, and he pulls the blanket down to expose us to the night air.

“It’s hot,” he mutters and removes his shirt.

I do not reply, but keep at my work, relishing how it feels to have him inside me. As I continue my rhythm, his breathing shifts. He relaxes. I’m only warming him up. My hand finds his balls, massaging them gently as I continue with my mouth. He lets out an “Oh, Jaskier,” and I move a finger downward to his opening. He’s damp with sweat and I forgo further wetting with my mouth, instead pushing my finger into him. I find the gland that will solicit what I want from him, what he wants from me. I probe against it, then pull towards the opening again to give the right pressure. His deep voice cracks as he says, “Oh” with feeling.

I keep at this a bit longer until I’m ready and he’s ready. Then I pull away, taking myself in hand and repositioning my body and his legs so I can guide my cock into him more easily. The entry is smooth enough and Geralt barely grits against it. It is not our first night in the woods on this particular journey. I look down at him, the feeling of his body’s internal heat surrounding me almost too pleasurable to allow words to flow from my mouth. But I manage. After all it is my livelihood to invent words where none were before.

“Sing for me, Witcher. Sing me the Ballad of the Aedirnian Woods.”

“I don’t know that one,” he says, a smile tugging his lips.

“I will teach you it.”

I thrust fully inside him, and his lower lip falls in an uncontrolled expression of pleasure. We continue this way until his moans become lyrical whimpers of joy. Sweat soaks through my shirt as I cry, “Yes, sing, Geralt! Sing!”

Geralt lets go of the pressure holding him back, and a cry of unbridled pleasure releases from deep within his soul, loudly and beautifully, into the woods. I feel the heat of orgasm rise within me. It shoots out like a catapult into his anal cavity. I am moaning loudly as he spills his own fluids onto his stomach. We’re shaking for a moment, shuddering in our coursing shared bliss. Finally I remove my sweat-drenched shirt, the night air cool against my damp skin. I lean down to kiss Geralt, the mess on his stomach becoming a mess on mine. I don’t mind. I want everything he gives me along with all the things he does not. Our lips move together in passion and contentedness until the wave of exhaustion washes over us both and I collapse beside him on my back.

“That was some ballad,” I say and look at him.

Geralt meets my glance and reaches to comb back the strands of hair that fell over my eyes.

“We will have to practice it again,” he says.

I smile, and my eyes flutter to try and stay open.

“Sleep, bard,” Geralt says gently.

This time, I do.

Early sun beams filtering through the leaves stir me awake. As I groggily return to the reality of the woodland ground beneath me, I feel the weight of Geralt’s arm around my torso and cover my hand over it, clasping the flesh and hair with my lute string callused fingers.

“Morning,” Geralt’s voice soothes out.

I look to his warm smile. Everything about him is gentle in the mornings we wake like this in the woods. Everything except for his eyes. They blaze golden, brighter than daylight. Or so it seems to me as I blind myself again and again, staring into them every time I awake in his arms. It must be magic. Nothing so resplendent could possibly be real.

The memory fades.

I sigh. Back in the dungeon cell. Back to being alone and lost. _Perhaps you’ve always been here, Buttercup._ _Perhaps nothing ever was real. Not your voice, not his touch, not the horse, nothing. And certainly not Geralt of Rivia’s eyes. Certainly not those._

A light flashes into existence outside of my cell’s grates. It glows golden, and I shield my eyes from its brightness until the familiarity creeps over me. I dare to look directly into the blinding glow. It’s something I’ve done so many times before, it seems. A figure emerges. Silhouetted. Unformed. My heart gains speed.

“Geralt?” My voice is a breath. An undertone. A thin wisp lost into the stale air.

“You’ve been difficult to find, Jaskier. You’ve been hidden from even Aretuza’s sight,” a woman says.

Her voice has a familiar authority to it, a rhythm I somehow know to loathe. Then I see her, the light of her portal dimming enough that her purple eyes and perfect cleavage are visible. _Yennefer_. I think to move away but find it painful to move. My leg, my entire side. The pain shoots through it all, and I realize I’d pushed it from my mind by not moving for so long, by existing only outside this cell. I’m not sure how long I’ve even been here. How I even arrived here.

“You’re hurt,” she says plainly, then glances around to size up her surroundings. “Can you stand?”

I don’t think I can stand but I don’t want to give her any more info than I must.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

My voice trembles and breaks, not from lack of use but something else. Something worse. Her face softens to a worried expression, and my stomach drops. Something is rather wrong with me. It’s written all over her face. Something horrible has happened. But I cannot remember what.

It happens fast: the clank of the iron lock hitting the stone floor, the creak of heavy metal opening, the sizzle of energy.

“We have to go now. They will have felt my chaos,” Yennefer says.

Her right hand reaches for me while her left holds open a new portal behind her. I look into it. The crashing sea lies beyond.

“Why should I trust you?” I ask. My voice sounds no better when I speak this time.

Yennefer lifts me to my feet, her shockingly strong grip nearly hovers me off the ground. She smiles at me in her wicked way and the pounding of Nilfgaardian soldiers’ boots draws closer to us.

“You shouldn’t,” she says. Her lilac eyes flash a moment longer to further tempt fate before she carries me into the portal.

We emerge at the edge of a seaside cliff, and she pulls me back from its steep drop after closing the portal. The grass is soft beneath me, a pillow of comforts after so long on hard stone. I see a cottage before us as we turn from the sea, smoke lazily drifts from its chimney. A soft whinny and the warmth of a breath I’d recognize anywhere come from beside me as Yennefer moves us towards the lone building on the cliff.

“Roach!” I exclaim as the brown horse shoves her muzzle against me. My fingers slip between her mane’s dark strands as I realize she’s real. That scent, there is no way to create Roach’s scent. I feel something inside me start to swell as I recognize what this must mean. Tears moisten my eyes as I threaten to burst apart.

The cottage door opens, and he’s there. All of his body, the crease on his brow, the long white hair still held back from his face with a tie.

“Jaskier!” he exclaims, and I burst inside.

It pours out of me in a heaving sob and I’m blind under the deluge of my own tears as my body is released from Yennefer’s grip and taken into Geralt’s arms. He presses me tight to his chest and I weep against him like a blubbering fool.

“Oh, Jaskier,” he soothes. His hands coax my back until my body calms. I feel someone else take my hand, a female touch too delicate to be Yennefer.

“I am so glad to have found you, Julian Alfred Pankratz,” she says and squeezes my hand. “Geralt of Rivia’s soul has been in torment since I saw what tortures you have endured.”

I turn my head to see who this girl who knows my real name is and find Princess Pavetta staring at me in earnest. Only it is not her.

“Jaskier, meet Cirilla,” Geralt says, loosening his embrace enough for me to nod to the girl.

Her eyes are a strange blue, and I can tell she’s special. I was there when it all happened, but to see her here in the flesh—now this is something else entirely.

“Your Child of Destiny is a girl!” I say, my voice no better.

Geralt laughs, and Cirilla smiles fully as only a child can. Though I can see in her strange eyes that she’s seen too much of this world to be a child any longer.

“Come inside and clean up, Jask. You look terrible. What is this?” Geralt runs his fingers through my overgrown facial hair with playful distaste.

“Excuse me for being imprisoned and without blade, Witcher,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

Cirilla slips into the cottage with a soft assurance. “I will draw the bath.”

“Yen will go for the herbs she needs to heal you,” Geralt says, looking beyond me to give her a nod. I hear a portal open then close, and we are alone on the cottage stoop.

“How can you trust her?” I ask.

“Much has changed with the war,” he says, his voice full of stories too sad to tell. I want to hear them all.

“I was remembering our travels through Aedirn when Yen found me. Do you remember our nights in the woods?” My voice is quiet, assumptive he’s forgotten or that it never even happened.

Geralt cups his rough hand around my cheek. “Jask, I remember everything about you, about us.”

I stare into his eyes, blazing golden in the sunlight.

“I should never have left you,” Geralt whispers. “After what Cirilla saw happen to you… I thought you would die before we could find you.”

“Am I dead?” I ask.

Geralt frowns then pushes his forehead to mine. His voice is velvet as he says, “I hope you are not. For I dearly wish to sing again.”

I press my lips to his, and he kisses me. Tenderly at first, still supporting my weight with his arm. But I grip onto him, pull our bodies closer together. Our mouths open and tongues meet like an ouroboros. The taste of him a rush of bliss, a surge of life. The lyrics finally fit the rhythm, and the song is complete.


End file.
